A Conspiracy of Books
by Wirez
Summary: Good Idea: Studing for Exams. Bad Idea: Finding a nasty suprise in the Library. Hermione seems to be in for an interesting first term. Will Harry survive another encounter with Moldy Voldy's cloaks and daggers? Will Hermione? Rating could possibly
1. Hogwarts: A History

**A Conspiracy of Books**

LEGAL NOTICE: Harry Potter, all names, characters, and related concepts are ©1997 J.K. Rowling.. This work of fiction and all concepts unique to it are ©2004 by Nan Solomonistoryy of Books

Chapter 1 Hogwarts: A History

Hermione suspiciously eyed Crabbe and Goyle from her seat across the library. For the last thirty-four minutes they had been hissing at each other while hovering awkwardly near Pansy Parkinson. Pansy was wearing a low-cut green designer shirt and a sour expression, from which Hermione surmised that she was stuck doing all of the group's research for tomorrow's History of Magic presentation. Despite the fact that Madame Pince might appear any moment to shush them, the Slytherin boys noisily riffled the books. Distracted, Hermione opened her notebook. She wished they'd leave. Their very presence caused a disturbance in the one place where lately she'd been able to find refuge.

Uncomfortably, the three served as another teeny tiny reminder that despite her most noble intentions, she was growing tired of the immaturity of her friends.

Ironically, it had to do with doggedly hating the Slytherins. This was a confession she wrung from herself quite ruefully, but then, who else could she say it to? Certainly not Crabbe and Goyle, who she noted seemed oddly vulnerable without Draco Malfoy around to think for them. And the longer she watched them, the less objection she really had to hating Slytherins, come to consider it. _I don't feel the least bit sorry for Pansy_, she thought.

According to conventional Hogwarts wisdom, Slytherins were maddeningly, almost too simply, bad-tempered, malignant, and generally up to something that was more than slightly morally objectionable (and probably illegal). She couldn't exactly fault Harry and Ron, or anyone else for that matter, for turning against them. As for playing fair—_what Slytherin_ _hasn't benefited from treachery_,she rationalized inwardly. A Slytherin was as predictable in the noxious manner in which they chose to unpredictably turn the tables as a Gryffindor was in the headlong manner in which they rushed in to defend the right of good, innocent, and beleaguered students in the Slytherins' path.

Anyway, it appeared that conventional wisdom held sway, at least for the present, as she witnessed Goyle wave his wand to cast a silencing charm on a book before ripping out a picture. She discovered that she was twisting the upper left corner of her notes and stopped watching to smooth out the pages.

The rumpled corners somehow made Hermione think of how all fall she'd been--not arguing--_disagreeing_--with Harry and Ron, for whom this predominant philosophy had been clearly demonstrated for the last five--going on six--years. Malfoy and his Slytherin groupies were forever attempting to make life at Hogwarts difficult--even dangerous--for most of the students, Harry in particular. This year seemed exceptionally bad.

_Which makes my position even more confusing_, she determined. _But it's only normal to be fed up with petty incidents, _she tried reasoning. That made sense. Surprisingly, what frustrated Hermione more was her friends' typical reactions in these situations. The course of strike and revenge had become so normal, so unsurprising--clear, simple, easy. _Act and react. At least, that's how it appears_.

For over a month Hermione had been thinking that Slytherins and Gryffindors were collectively altogether unimaginative, when you boiled it all down. She recalled Harry in the common room an hour ago, glaring at her furiously, and thought he'd probably be questioning her loyalty if he knew she'd even had a twinge of empathy for Malfoy's luckless companions (books aside, of course).

Harry. If she was honest with herself, he was the real reason the rivalry had begun to grate on her nerves. It wasn't nearly as obvious as the persistent sniping just out of range of the teachers' view. That, of course, had been happening even before she had come to Hogwarts and inadvertently inherited, so to speak, the enmity between the houses. _The part that makes it sinister now_, she thought, _is that it's an enmity founded on a very real past._

Not so long ago, a Hogwarts student--Tom Riddle--had plunged the magical world into horror. The legitimate and intrinsic response was fear. And that fear now continued to haunt Hermione. _What does it mean, _she pondered, _that he's easily the ultimate enemy? _When he failed to kill the Potter's only child, everyone dared to feel relieved. Then came the easy, predictable descent into complaisance. But Hermione knew, not only from her hobby of reading history books, but from other unsettling indicators--Sirius' death the most visible because of its immediacy--that current events outside the castle were progressing toward something just as precarious as what she found between the pages of her History of Magic homework.

Now, Voldemort had really returned. He had attempted to kill her best friend five times. O_fficially._ _I can just picture him hiding somewhere slimy, weaving some ridiculously hateful plan--something insidious, simple—something I'll be sure to overlook because it's so obvious. . . _ Hermione turned the slightly spotted page absently before she realized that she had not really read the last three paragraphs.

_You're losing touch_, she chided herself. Sternly she turned her attention back to her history text--only one of the classes that now left her awake at night, worrying about her friends and her family--who, after all, belonged to an almost entirely unsuspecting, non-magic world. Hermione realized that even though she spent so much time in the library by herself, the presence of Harry and Ron beside her in class was an increasing comfort to her. After Hagrid's fiasco as an ambassador last year, finding herself furiously scritching notes about Giants and dark alliances certainly did little to improve Hermione's disposition.

In the starkly honest section of her mind, Hermione knew that she was afraid. The fear followed her to Potions, where it was compounded by the new intensity that seemed to emanate from Snape's flowing black robes. It followed her up the echoing corridors to the astronomy tower, to the prefect meetings, even to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, which she guiltily visited from time to time while trying (to Myrtle's frequent annoyance) to get background on Riddle. _That's absurd_! it dawned on her waspishly. _You can't even escape for a few minutes in the toilet._

She propped up her text book and peeked over it. Pansy was stuffing parchment into her pack as Crabbe emerged from the Restricted Section looking slightly lumpy. _ Bet none of _that_ turns up in the presentation._ Hermione gave up entirely on the passage. Their furtiveness merely illustrated how the politics of the larger magical community were always thrown into sharper relief inside the school. Hogwarts was, as usual, a study in miniature of the barely capped hostilities and sly mobilizations now going on outside the castle walls. Petty incidents set off roiling unease among her fellow students because of the endless possibilities for conspiracy and interpretation.

For instance, since the beginning of the year Draco Malfoy (who's admittedly classic platinum hair and finely etched features Hermione had always considered shamefully wasted on his arrogant, cruel personality) had taunted Harry with dog jokes. It seemed like typical Malfoy behavior, but who knew what else might lie behind it? Yesterday's Potions class had brought a new variety.

"Hey, Potter," Draco'd said, shouldering up to Harry and consulting the messily half-checked-off list of ingredients.

"What d'you want, Malfoy?" Harry grated. He wouldn't look at her, but Hermione willed him to breathe--deeply.

Draco shrugged, then said in a stage-whisper, conspiratorially, and without a trace of malice, "Is it true what they're saying about you and Bella Lestrange?"

Harry stared furiously.

Draco picked up a vial, with great precision selected three perfect fruitbat toenails, dropped them one by one into Harry's potion. "Bloody wicked. Your furry friend would've been proud." He paused lightly. "You do know, don't you," he sent a brief nod in Goyle's direction, as if at his best informant--as if to say, _Our lad Harry, look no further_--and nudged Harry, eyes widening with admiration, "he'd have had her himself, anytime. . .if she'd just whistled. No wonder he didn't see it coming--she had him transfixed from the moment--"

Harry's cauldron went flying one way, he and Draco the other. Hermione shut the rest out. She couldn't fathom exactly why Draco did what he did. She'd felt empathy for him a few times before--especially when she'd met his father, Lucius. It didn't change that Draco was heartless. It just made her understand something about dark magic--that at a very basic level the desire for power stripped a person down to the very desire--the very need--to simply survive--in order to have it. It was what made you look at someone and think they embodied the very essence of something. And rarely did anyone pay too high a price to have it. That was usually paid by someone else. Because there _was _no price too high. But Hermione couldn't be certain that Draco really wanted that kind of power. Perhaps.

At any rate, he certainly wasn't really that different than Hermione in one way--they were both afraid. He wasn't exempt. It had hung over him the way it did over her, over all of them, from the moment they arrived at the Hogwarts platform. The fear was like a vague, corrosive mist that sweetly ate away at the inside of the esophagus, the spongy tissue of the lungs. Impossible to pinpoint or filter, it broke down all the cellular boundaries and let the blood seep into the body's niches. Finally, it choked you. You drowned.

The fear was the thing that allowed Hermione to really understand Harry's nearly uncontrollable anger. She knew her friend was also swimming in it desperately. She had to find a better way to deal with Harry before the end of the term. There was too much to do, but that wasn't a good enough excuse anymore for not getting involved--which thanks to an hour ago she now knew her time in the library looked like. Maybe she'd talk to Ron, who might understand, especially since they'd come to agree that being near Harry these days, when he had such a great deal of grief and rage emanating from him like an invisible aura--or perhaps a shield--was overwhelming.

Right now_--at least he'd better be--_he was with Harry, working on another spectacular star chart in the common room. And all of them, Ginny, and Neville, and Luna--and everyone else from the DADA-- had at one time or another in the past few weeks expressed the need to find a way to cope with the pressure of the indefinable outside threat hanging over them. Whether she liked it or not, she was old enough--more than, considering what Harry had already been through--to take some responsibility for doing something _significant_ about it.

In fact, she already was. Since the previous summer, Hermione had been in contact with Ron's mother, who refused to let her do anything more dangerous than research. But it was something, and necessary. Hermione easily got Professor McGonagall's approval for access to the restricted section. Some of the books in the extensive collection on dark magic, she was certain, were frequently browsed by other students as well. Hermione knew without Mrs. Weasely telling her so that she had to be careful not to be seen too often. Her only consolation was that most of the other students attempted to be equally cautious. Aside from the Slytherins, who'd finally gone.

Hermione reflected that at least for tonight it had become easier also to use the research as an excuse to find time alone. Not that she actually wanted to avoid Harry. She seriously needed time to clear her head. They'd only come here if they really needed her. _Which saves me from thinking that even if he needed me he wouldn't come because he doesn't want to, _said the unwelcome voice in the back of her mind.

So perhaps he also understood her solitude. He and Ron were aware but didn't ask about her midnight discussions with Mrs. Weasely in the fireplace, and she in turn hadn't pressed Harry to talk about the reasons he nearly knocked down every Slytherin in his path. Both boys had begun to complain, however, that they never saw her anymore, so she had obtained some special permissions from Professor McGonagall in order to spend more time around them.

She closed the cover of her book without rancor, which prompted her to sigh again. Harry knew exactly how she would react when he was angry with her. He was probably counting on her holing up here. _See? Even I'm too predictable, just like he said. How stupid. _

Still, she didn't appreciate it. It made her feel--well, silly. For not only being predictable, but useless, and_--this is shallow--_boring. She supposed she herself was probably the most boring person she knew_--probably more so, when you take into account the fact that I'm spending all my time shut up in a musty, deserted library._

Momentarily, Hermione allowed herself a horrified flash in which she saw herself as a fifty-two year old, greying librarian--bun, solid upper arms and stout ankles, a pile of dusty books on the counter in front of her listening to yet one more _whining_ student complain that they hadn't known the due date. This future Hermione recognized it as only one of the excuses she regularly heard, despite the newly marketed _Libri Ultionis_ spell that not only tracked the book to whatever dormitory cranny it had been left in, but had an updated bloodcurdling banshee-like wail that increased the longer the book remained out. Her librarian instincts informed her, grimly, that the students had once again invented a counter-charm that also disabled the tracking system.

In her mind's eye, the older Hermione had been arguing for years with the headmaster over the benefit of having the books simply wing their way back onto the shelves when the due date had passed. She had been consistently blocked by his assertion that forcing the students to return the books themselves and pay the late penalty (manually shifting books) taught them responsibility. Regrettably, having that penalty paid was vitally necessary. Due to limited space she constantly had to weed out materials and create space for new ones. (The newest expanding shelving models likely _would_ create better nooks than the famed astronomy tower--librarians frequently know more than they let on--but that topic was destined to be yet another unending losing battle with the headmaster.)

Librarian Hermione knew that it was the Slytherin students (and a few wayward Gryffindors) who managed to not only leave the library without checking out books on dark subjects (rarely-to-be-seen-again)--but who when penalized somehow managed to get off without moving one book, magic or no magic. She considered this last bit the crowning insult.

Startled back to the present by the bumbling sound of a number of heavy books bumping their way down a shelf in a remote corner, Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. She steadied her own pile of research (on what she already considered the despicable use of turtledove oil in dark potions) and prepared to pack her bag for the evening. She took her time, watching out of the corner of her eye for Madame Pince to return to the counter. Likely she was in the back corner straightening the disarrayed volumes and giving a pointed, hushed lecture to the unfortunate miscreant who had knocked them over. Hermione briefly wondered where Peeves was and hoped for Madame Pince's sake that he was on good terms with librarians.

She glanced at the time turner Professor McGonagall had returned to her, one of the reasons that she was able to steal so much unnoticed time in here lately. The last clump of sand in the center had begun breaking apart. Hermione really wished Madame Pince would hurry up. It wasn't easy resetting it for less than five minutes. She listened carefully. It was dawning on her that the library was unnaturally silent.

"Madame Pince?" She received no answer. "Are you here? It's just that I need to check these out--curfew's in less than ten minutes. . ."

She waited an appropriate pause, resignedly watching the turner. Still nothing.

"Hell-o-oo?" The softness and hesitancy in her tone making her realize that she really expected no answer. Hermione casually glanced around. Nobody within sight at the study tables. No approaching footsteps. She moistened her lips and turned back to the counter.

Hermione slipped out her wand and surreptitiously tapped the pile of books. Keeping one eye open, she whispered, "_Invigorata_" to the modified Library QuickQuill on the far side of the counter. The pen beside the checkout log rose up, ruffled its feather once for good measure, and with a flourish dipped itself in the inkwell and began writing.

As _The Warlock's Guide to Distilling TurtleDove Oil: Methods for Escaping Detection _appeared on a line of parchment,the due date also displayed itself in the middle right-hand side of the front cover in enchanted red ink. It was a tactic she had resorted to before when she was in a hurry. Madame Pince probably knew, too, but since Hermione was one of the few students who actually returned items on time, had chosen to overlook it. It merely confirmed Hermione's suspicion that she was secretly one of hard-faced Madame Pince's favorites.

She stood at the counter for a moment longer as the pen finished scratching away, just in case Madame Pince returned. She didn't. In an undertone Hermione pronounced the words to the spell that lifted the book alarms. Was it her imagination, or did a brief murmur mar the heavy silence. She looked around. Nobody. The library had been deserted a few moments before, hadn't it? The more she considered it, waiting for the pen to finish, the less she liked it. A slow, cold, shiverish prickle began to wriggle its way up her spine.

Hermione shoved the books into her (fortunately) expanding backpack, feeling it get momentarily heavier, then lighter as the charms on it worked. She zipped it shut and began walking rapidly toward the way out, pulling it onto her shoulders as she moved. Under her right sleeve she gripped the shaft of her wand tightly.

Relieved at having reached the door, Hermione inexplicably paused one last time.

"Madame Pince? Anybody there?"

Ignoring her now-racing pulse, Hermione forced herself to wait for an answer that she could feel wasn't going to come. _All that silly stuff about intuition, History of Magic, and impending doom_, she told herself. _Likely nothing_. She should go back to the common room and try to finish up in time to get some sleep. Nothing to worry about.

If she thought Madame Pince was back in the stacks and needed help--which her mind was now suggesting in almost hysterical tones--she'd just mention to Professor McGonagall that she'd heard something weird. She needn't go and look. She waited a moment longer, almost nauseous with tension.

_I have to_, she decided. The library was empty, and all she had to do to assuage her mind was go look round. Hermione turned right and tiptoed by the tables and into the last row of bookshelves, wand at the ready. At the end she peered into the recess beyond. Nothing. She let her breath out slowly, took a step, and fell blindly forward as her ankle came in contact with something solid.

Hermione screamed. The library wards went off before she hit the floor, creating a cacophony of noise that made her, in her indefensible position, let out a second, smaller shriek. Embarrassed, she swallowed and put out her hand. "_Accio_," she croaked, and her wand smacked against her palm as she sat up on her knees and stared at the too-still leg she had tripped over.

Its partner was sprawled at a terrible angle, the foot still wrapped around the bottom edge of the book stack, the unmoving torso, right arm, shoulders and head buried in a jumble of enormous books. A dark stain soaked the carpet underneath. Whoever it was obviously wasn't breathing. The shrill wails paired with the motionless form gave the entire scene an unsettling feeling of unreality.

As the alarms dwindled, Hermione lightly placed her fingers around the inert wrist and checked the pulse. Nothing. Gingerly, she reached over the body, sucking in her stomach to prevent coming into contact, and tilted a book lying in the aisle so that she could read the spine. Its gold writing glinted on the leather, greenish with age. _Hogwarts: a History, Volume II. Great_, thought Hermione.

Unconsciously gritting her teeth, she settled back and took stock of the situation. The body lay face-down. She slowly lifted the sickeningly damp tome that had clearly dented in the person's scruffy head--_Volume VII. _Hermione fought back the desire to gag at the sight and smell of the gory mess. Holding the head gently between her hands, she eased it to one side. The nose was flattened, but then she realized she'd been looking at it that way for nearly six years.

It was Goyle.


	2. The Usual Suspects

Chapter 2 The Usual Suspects

The alarms ceased. In the abrupt silence, Hermione desperately waited for someone to arrive. She wanted to run. Instead, she forced herself to remain kneeling beside Goyle's prone body. It was the only logical thing she could think of to do.

Unfortunately, the longer she waited, the less sensible it seemed. Several more nightmarish seconds ticked by before she realized that blood was still seeping from the corpse, encroaching steadily towards her knees where the floor dipped slightly. As her sense of suspended reality began to fragment and dissolve she fought back nausea and panic._ Get up. _

She rose shakily. Halfway up she nearly lost her balance, but was afraid to grab onto the nearest bookshelf in case it too was unstable. Her nerves really couldn't take any more surprises.

For good measure, she edged away from Goyle and pressed her back against the wall several feet away. That still felt too exposed, so she shifted right, out of the dim illumination from the sconces. It was as eerily silent as the moment before she'd discovered his body.

_Why isn't anyone coming? _her mind wailed. As soon as she got up the courage to move again, she'd have to go for help. Right now the thought of miles of dark corridor between her and aid was more than she could handle. Hermione tried to take a firmer grip on her wand and found that she couldn't. Her fingers were already locked around it, white with the strain.

She heard a noise like a shuffle in the aisle and wordlessly swung toward the right in terror, stomach knotting swiftly, pulse pounding in her ears. Nobody was there. Maybe it was just the tapestry, stirred by some current, bumping the wall. She stood stock still for what seemed like hours. Silence.

Finally, Hermione forced herself to take a very deep breath. She let her head rest against the solid stone. Her motion shifted a slight weight around her neck. The time turner.

Briefly, she considered. _I could turn it back._ She wouldn't have to be the one to find Goyle. All it would take was a few minutes. Or perhaps twenty—enough time to find Madame Pince and check out her books properly. Leave the library and go straight to Professor McGonagal. _No, what am I thinking? That doesn't make sense. . . _ Or she could hide beneath the table in the alcove--

To her relief she heard voices in the hallway. The cacophony in her head ceased. She put out a foot to ease down the end aisle, back still to the wall.

"Miss Granger!" shrieked Madame Pince, appearing suddenly at the opposite end of the alcove.

Hermione let out an answering scream and then stood shaking, pale and shocked.

Really, it was all too much, what with Madame Pince staring at her, stunned and accusatory across Goyle's still form. Hermione did what she'd sworn she wouldn't do, and letting go of her last scrap of dignity, burst into tears.

"Oh, Miss Granger, I'm so sorry! _So_ sorry. I didn't think to startle you. Only, just-- Oh! Horrible!" Madame Pince uttered, scurrying to Goyle's side.

_Too Late_, Hermione thought, tearfully taking a handkerchief that was pressed into her hand.

"There, there, my dear," said Dumbledore gently. Hermione barely noticed him-- just sniffled pathetically in relief. It wasn't until she saw Snape stride in the door towards the aisle, alerted by Madame Pince's outburst, that she was able to get control of herself. She quieted. Dumbledore gave her shoulder another pat that was both approving and comforting.

He called out calmly, "Well, Irma, what is it?"

Madame Pince now shook her head at Hermione despondently. "Oh, it's no use--no use at all--"

Dumbledore gently moved Hermione aside and moved into the alcove, betraying his surprise only by a momentary intake of breath. Then he stood so that he deliberately blocked Snape's view.

"Irma, take a deep breath, and then tell me what has happened."

Hermione cautiously looked behind Dumbledore at Snape, who was neatly stuck in the aisle between them and the last section of shelves. His beady black eyes were on her; he looked extremely impatient, but said nothing. Hermione looked away. Madame Pince apparently was too distraught to respond. She just held out her hands uselessly, palms up. Hermione thought she appeared shell-shocked.

Dumbledore turned imperceptibly, still not allowing Snape out of the aisle, and redirected his question to Hermione. "How long have you been standing here, my dear?" 

Despite her best attempt at composure, her voice wavered. "I--I'm not sure, professor." Then she blurted out, " I didn't do it!" She unsuccessfully tried to stifle a tide of sobs.

"No." Dumbledore replied with a firm shake of his head. "Nobody thinks that you did." He gave Madame Pince a very stern look.

"Oh," Hermione breathed tearfully. Dumbledore let her finish wiping her nose. She realized he was waiting for her to finish answering and wadded up the handkerchief. "P'raps ten minutes?" she ventured. Then for some reason she felt the need to clarify, "Since I discovered him. . .I mean. . ." she foundered, then finished, "it felt like it, anyway."

"Mmm," he replied, deep in thought.

"Him who?" Snape spoke at last, icily, directing his narrowed gaze at Hermione.

Dumbledore patted Hermione's arm absently and folded his arms behind him as he moved forward, only to be brought up short. "Severus, do you mind?" he asked mildly.

"Sorry!" Snape jumped back awkwardly, having the grace to look embarrassed. His foot had left a large, chalky print on the back of Dumbledore's scarlet nightrobe.

"Severus, it appears that you must prepare yourself. Have a care--" But Snape had already pushed past Hermione and Dumbledore, stumbling slightly over Goyle's outstretched leg. Dumbledore diplomatically steadied him. Snape stood up as stiffly as if Madame Pince had rushed at him for comfort, and then glared, for little apparent reason, at Hermione. She quickly pretended to bury her nose in Dumbedore's handkerchief.

For this reason, she missed Snape's reaction when he at last recognized Goyle. After a long moment, Dumbledore spoke evenly. "Irma. Please alert Poppy and Minerva. Oh, and we will, I think, require Argus."

"Yes, at once," Madame Pince replied rather too loudly, clearly in a rush to be engaged as far as possible from the grotesque shape lying on the floor of her library. She disappeared down the row and Hermione could hear her hurried steps scuffing the ancient floor.

"Severus," Dumbledore began quietly. Snape made no reply, but as Hermione slipped forward, she was surprised to see that his grim face was as blanched as the footprint on Dumbledore's hem.

Dumbledore measured Hermione out of the corner of his eye, then began again. "Severus, I realize that you perhaps have certain concerns. However, you must keep in mind that not even the boy's father-- or Lucius, for that matter-- will dispute that you were in my office when this occurred. Knott, for instance--"

"Yes," Snape said shortly. He gave a single, curt nod and then stepped forward briskly. Hermione noted that his white hands only trembled slightly as he knelt and reached out to examine the body.

"Miss Granger," he said curtly, the way he did when demanding an answer in Potions class--the kind that she could tell he suspected even _she_ didn't know, "Can you describe for me what happened?"

"Well," she began shakily, her mind skipping rapidly through the details-- quickly editing the part where she had checked out her own library books. She told it as succinctly as possible. Her voice sounded clipped and cold, and she thought with remorse that her disgust for Goyle and his cohorts earlier had been so inappropriate, now that he was--

"And how long did you wait for Irma before finding. . . him," Snape finished.

"At least five minutes--no. More like ten."

"Oh?" he inquired.

Dumbledore also knelt now, his right knee resting on the wet floor, scarlet against cerise. Hermione swallowed. "I assume this item is responsible?" he said to her, gently picking up the blood-stained leather volume of _Hogwarts, A History_. Snape's mouth thinned perceptibly.

She nodded. "I'm sorry I moved it. I wasn't sure otherwise--who it is. Was."

"That's fine, Miss Granger. And how much time do you estimate until we arrived?"

Unconsciously she fiddled with the time turner. Professor McGonagal had placed a disguising charm on it so that to everyone else it looked like a pendant with a clear, colorless stone. "Eight minutes or so until Madam Pince found me. Us," she corrected herself. Could it really have been so short a time?

"He can't have been dead long," Snape concluded, his pained expression stating the obviousness of his observation. "And you're sure there was nobody else?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Hermione allowed. "I never actually saw any of the others leave--I--was a bit pre-occupied," she confessed.

Snape nodded again once. He didn't press her. "They'd be long gone by now."

As he and Dumbledore began gathering up the scattered books, Hermione screwed up her courage. "Professor."

Dumbledore turned inquisitively to find her considering Snape. When Hermione didn't continue, Snape also turned and blinked, surprised. He lifted an eyebrow eloquently.

"I think it's strange, don't you. . . that that book would cause such a mess. I mean, I know it's a hardback, and there's a--erm--dent--"

"Yes, Miss Granger," Snape confirmed, low and rapidly.

"I thought so," she whispered. She looked away quickly. Snape considered her for a moment. He was thinking that she looked altogether too pale.

Dumbledore balanced one more book on top of a stack and with a deft wave of his hand directed them back onto the half-empty top shelf. "Six volumes _is_ quite a lot of weight to fall on a person," he observed delicately. _Volume VII_ rose into his outstretched palm. "I daresay this one will need considerable repair, especially the top corner."

They heard rapid footsteps in the entrance. Dumbledore swiftly tucked the heavy book into a hidden pocket of his nightrobe. Prudently, Hermione faded into the background and let the flurry of activity that commenced blur around her. Later she would recall Madame Pomfrey, stony-faced, patting Snape's shoulder as she gently levitated Goyle's dangling form. Snape remained motionless. But he didn't pull away, though there was never any love lost between the stern witch who ran the infirmary and most of the members of his house.

Finally, Dumbledore approached her. "I would suggest that you go back to your dormitory," he said. From his post next to the aisle, Snape looked as if he might protest, but the headmaster continued firmly, "I will call you in the morning. _After_ breakfast," he added, waving dismissively. He took Professor McGonagal by the arm and led her away to one side of the alcove.

"Minerva, allow me to fill you in. Severus," he said, turning for a moment, "under the circumstances, I must ask you to escort Miss Granger to the second stairwell--"

"Right," Snape said. Hermione winced but didn't have time to argue. He was gone before she came to. She followed him down the adjacent aisle, suddenly very tired. It was all she could do to keep up. For a moment in the corridor she wondered which was worse--being led by the potions master through the dark castle--after finding a dead Slytherin--or going back to the Gryffindor Tower alone. _Well, _she thought resignedly, _since the situation hardly calls for eating or drinking anything. . ._

Snape remained absolutely silent. The ghosts had thinned out, mostly patrolling the corridors adjoining the library. They came to the bottom of the unlit stair. Hermione glanced up to the empty, shadowy landing. It was so quiet--unusual, since the curfew had been rather lax of late. The thin, shivery feeling she'd been trying to suppress on her way through the halls returned, the one she'd had just before discovering Goyle—the feeling of being watched. It reminded her of the day she'd crept around each corner using her mirror after she discovered a basilisk was loose in the school.

_Oh, honestly_, she thought, squaring her shoulders. At last, Snape seemed to sense her disquiet. "If you prefer, I could continue from here." Caught off guard, Hermione didn't immediately respond. He spoke with a stiff formality that she recognized not as dislike, but awkwardness. As if he cared in some bizarre manner what she, a student, thought of him now that he wasn't standing at the head of a classroom or questioning her about dead bodies in the library. _How ridiculous_, she thought, and for a blinding moment considered what Harry'd seen of Snape's memories in the pensieve--how James and Sirius had heckled him mercilessly.

"Or, not," he concluded and spun haughtily.

He was three echoing steps down the corridor when Hermione interjected boldly, "Professor Snape! I--Thank you. And I'm sorry," she said hurriedly as he halted, feeling surprised at the levelness in her voice as she finished, "about Goyle."

His head inclined once. Then he departed, his feet still moving rapidly. It was hard to tell whether or not the bite in the echoes was less. Left in the dimness she wondered at herself. Likely, it made no difference. Hermione took a deep breath and reached for the banister.

On the third stair, she paused wearily. "Harry, you can come out now. I know you're there."

"Sorry," he said, pulling the invisibility cloak down so that she could see his face. The friction made his hair stick up, she could see it even in the dim light. "I didn't want to scare you."

"I know. You were swishing the entire way. I'm surprised Snape didn't hear you."

"Oh." His tone was subdued.

She turned to face him. "Harry, how long were you at the library?"

"Not long. I was by the Great Hall when the alarm went." He couldn't resist a grin. "I went to Hogsmead to test some of Fred and George's new stuff," he said, patting an invisible pocket. "Ron's in for a surprise."

She almost smiled, then remembered she was frustrated with him. Then remembered that Goyle was dead.

"I saw him, you know," he told her swiftly, as if reading her thoughts. "When Madame Pomfrey took him to the infirmary." He carefully watched Hermione's expression. "He's dead, isn't he."

"Yeah," she said quietly.

Harry nodded. After a second he said, "The first time seeing it--when it's someone you know. . . and I'd imagine, even when you don't like them. . . " Finally, he said, slowly, "Hermione, I'm really sorry about earlier. I --"

"I know." Hermione wanted to say more, but wasn't sure at the moment if she was up to it. But this was Harry. _Do something_, she reminded herself.

She reached out and tugged at the corner of his sleeve. "Listen, let's get back. We'll have to tell Ron anyway." She accepted his faint smile of gratitude. As they continued up the stairs she spoke once more, "I'm glad you're here."

"Whadd'ya mean, Goyle's dead?" Mrs. Weasely's horrified shriek was fortunately muffled; she inhaled a mouthful of ashes.

"Mum!" Ron hushed her.

"I know, _sorry_," she managed to get out between gasps. "My poor dear," she said to Hermione, "tell us. . . _cough. . ._all about it."

Harry watched Mrs. Weasely's sooty face crease with concern as Hermione relayed the details. His friend looked even more worn out in the faint green glow of the fireplace. They'd had to wait until everyone was asleep--not easily done, especially since Neville and Luna had recently begun keeping very late hours. It had been hard not to fall asleep himself, even though he still felt unsettled. It didn't help that he and Hermione had yet to discuss their fight earlier. Now, however, didn't seem like the best time.

_Nice going, Potter_, he thought. _Got a real keen knack for the obvious. She's right, you know_. He hated that little voice of self-criticism. It always managed to sound somehow like Malfoy.

Mrs. Weasely leaned out of the fireplace and gave Hermione a faint, greenish hug from the Burrow's kitchen. Now that she had told the entire story, the pale Gryffindor collapsed on the couch. Hermione had insisted they tell Mrs. Weasely. She had to tell someone, and she wasn't ready to face her parents. They'd be far too worried, and also bemused-- they weren't really up on Wizarding politics. Not that Molly Weasely wasn't a worrier. But she at least understood this world. And was aware of Hermione's extra-curricular activities, the least of which were suggesting an entirely frightening set of possibilities for Goyle's death.

"But that's crazy," Ron said. "I can't believe it."

"There are plenty of reasons why somebody might hurt any of you," his mother pointed out.

"But a Slytherin?" he protested.

Hermione looked up to discover Harry staring at her, a faraway expression on his pale face. She thought of how he'd looked in the stairwell when he started to apologize, and how he'd looked earlier that afternoon-- apologetic, still pale from arguing. The dark smudges beneath Harry's eyes reminded her of what had started the fight in the first place--her reaction to the purplish bruises on Draco Malfoy's nearly translucent neck, which he'd taken no trouble to conceal jostling his way in from Herbology.

_"Harry, have you no subtlety?"_

_What's that supposed to mean?" he said, genuinely hurt._

_Hermione let out a long sigh. "Oh, Harry. I can't be a diplomat right now. Draco's been wearing you down since the moment we boarded the train this year. Has it even occurred to you that he might have a reason?"_

_Ron snorted. "Because he's a wanker prat?"_

_Hermione couldn't help it. The smile crept out from the corners of her lips._

_"Yes," she finally agreed. And you let him get away with it. Not," she added quickly, "that he doesn't deserve being called that. But, maybe, we should find a way to take better advantage of it, not react so easily the way he wants you to."_

_Harry just looked at her. He raised his hands, helplessly. "Hermione, do you think it's easy to deal with the things he does? Do you think I want to--well--yeah, I want to hit him all the time. Every day-- every day would be about right."_

_Hermione relented. Then she thought of the boiling inside her when she saw those marks on Draco's neck--like the rage inside Harry that he threw against anything he could in order to just breathe._

_"Harry. I think. . ." she said carefully, "that there's more here than just Draco finding a way to rile you."_

_Ron shifted uncomfortably on the sofa beside Harry and placed his heavy astronomy book upright on his knees._

_"What, did you come up with this brilliant idea in the library?"_

_"What's that supposed to mean?"_

_"You tell me, Hermione. You're in there--all the time--I didn't even see you yesterday after Potions. What makes you think you know? Do you have any clue how I've been? This star chart is due tomorrow--I've been in Dumbledore's office for more hours in the past twenty-four than I care to count--with Draco Malfoy--," the last he spat out viciously, rising. _

_"Harry, I know--" she began._

_"NO HERMIONE! You don't," he finished more quietly, all the anger now gone from his voice. He stood there, thin hands hanging by his slender sides, lax. Not clenched. Empty. Not even resisting._

_At last she said, "I only wanted to say I know--that it's really easy to see things so simply--one side is good, the other evil. But I guess I don't have to tell you that. It sounds like you already understand." She looked him in the face. "It just seems--what he's doing to you--really boring. . ._

_"For you," he interjected._

_Hermione let the guilt wash over her, searching for her point, "That's the wrong word. I meant incredibly. . . predictable. Easy. Like he's counting on it, the way they all do. . .on what we won't see." She stopped, unprepared to finish her line of thinking. She let it swirl away in the jumble of angry, sad, frightened colors and images and words that unraveled through her mind of late. "I'm going to the library. So you'll know where I am, if you decide you need me," she ended lamely. She could almost hear Ron holding his breath._

_"That's not predictable," Harry stated icily. For a fleeting instant, his green eyes flickered, as if relenting. Then they became agates again._

She watched him now, as distant and remote as the colorless pendant of the time-turner flaring briefly in the light from the floo.

"Didn't you want any, dear?" Mrs. Weasely prompted Hermione, holding out a steaming mug of chamomile tea from the fireplace.

"Oh, right. Thanks," she said, as Ron uncurled from the chair to get it.

Mrs. Weasely concluded to Ron, "All I'm suggesting, dear, is that you all be a little more on your toes. There's no telling what the Slytherin's will invent. _We_ know Hermione had nothing to do with it. Dumbledore's contacted the Order already."

Harry's eyes focused suddenly. "Well," he said decisively, and Hermione felt a rush of gladness as she saw the old fierceness flare up in them, "there's no way Hermione's going anywhere without one of us. At least not 'til this clears up."

Twenty minutes after Ron went to bed, Hermione sat next to Harry on the couch. They hadn't looked at each other much. There didn't seem to be anything else to say.

Harry was relieved that most of the apology seemed to be over. He hated fighting with Hermione. It was like chopping off his own hand out of spite. "You know," he said, "I don't really know if I feel sorry for Goyle. Or Crabbe. Definitely not Malfoy. I s'pose I should."

Hermione smiled tiredly. "Or Snape."

"Snape?"

"I think he took it a bit hard, losing a student like that. And Harry, I think he was worried, too."

"Yeah. The Order."

"Exactly." Hermione twisted the string of the teabag.

They sat for several more moments while Harry thought it over. Finally, he spoke. "I think," he said very quietly, "that when you talk to Dumbledore tomorrow, you should tell him something else I saw, outside the library."

"What's that?"

Harry turned to face her, green eyes intent. "I think Snape's got another problem. Guess whose name I saw on the Marauder's Map? I noticed just after Madame Pince left for the infirmary.

"Who?"

"Draco Malfoy. He was in the right-hand corridor, just round the corner. I actually saw him--he had to walk right by me. It was too dark to tell, but I think-- I think he left footprints."


End file.
